The Scouring of the City
by Altariel
Summary: In the days between the end of the War and the return of the King, Faramir and Éowyn conduct a private investigation.
1. Chapter 1

**The Scouring of the City**

 _Minas Tirith, April 3019 T.A._

[1]

It was Éowyn, of course, who put the idea in his mind, during one of their evenings together, after the day's work was done.

After she had accepted him – and after they had left the entire City in no real doubt as to their intentions – they had established a pattern. Both had work to do: his to restore a City sufficiently to hand over to its rightful owner; hers to make good her promise to learn the craft of healing. So their days were busy – but their evenings were theirs, and theirs alone. Escaping the never-ending stream of petitioners, courtiers, and other assorted hangers-on, he would slip out of the White Tower by a little-known side door, and make his way down to the Houses of Healing. There he would find her – sometimes waiting, sometimes still busy – and then they would go back, arm-in-arm, up to the Steward's House, to eat the daymeal, and then simply to be together.

Sometimes they sat in the garden; sometimes in the library; sometimes they might venture out into the Court of the Fountain to look out across to where their home would be. And all the time they talked. For so long now, year after year, they had both restrained themselves, bitten their tongues, kept silent because speech would only bring more grief. And now… Now they were free.

What did they talk about, now that they had someone to talk to? About how their lives had been before, and how their lives would be now. About the wedding to come, and the house that they would build, and the children they hoped would happen. About Ithilien, and Rohan, and Gondor. And they each listened, because the other was their chief interest. She thought: _I am understood. I am heard_. He thought, _I am listened to. I will not have to do this alone._ And they both thought: _This – this is the life I have longed to live_. They could both see how it would be: the partnership, the trust, the work they would be able to do, together.

Each night he would walk her back to the Houses of Healing. On the step, they would kiss, and part, and each would look forward to the moment of meeting again the following day. But on this particular night, with the Sickle hanging bright overhead, they crossed the Court of the Fountain, she turned to him and said, "But tell me, love – who was your Gríma here?"

* * *

[2]

In her defence, the thought had not come completely out of nowhere. She had, since accepting his proposal, been considering all her life before now, the steps that had brought her here, seeking death and finding life. Sloughing off the old skin. And he had been teaching her too about the ways of the City. A new dispensation was coming, yes, but some of the old policies and factions would survive. He knew that not everyone here would receive the Heir of Elendil as readily as he. And when he told her about the _palant_ _í_ _r_ … Well. The idea had formed, and once formed had preyed on her mind. But she knew she could trust him in all ways, so she asked.

And had shocked him, seemingly. He was standing stock still, staring at her, pale in the lamplight. "What do you mean, love?"

"I mean, we know how the Enemy worked his will in the White Tower. But what about Saruman? At Meduseld there was Gríma," (she felt him clutch her hand a little tighter), "whispering Saruman's poison into the King's ear. But what about here? How did Saruman work his will here?"

He did not reply. Instead he walked on, slowly, drawing her away from the House. He led her from the main road onto a narrow street where the houses were closed and dark. Some, perhaps, would have families returning soon. Others, she suspected, had stood empty and sad for many a long year. He brought her to an embrasure, and sat, patting the stone beside him. She squeezed in next to him, into the narrow space. He felt cold. She slipped her arm around him.

"What makes you think Minas Tirith was in his sights?" he said. His face was in shadow.

"What makes you think it was not?"

"His task, as I understand it, was to corrupt the Mark. To render it impossible for you to come to our aid—"

"And you believe he obeyed his orders to the letter? That he did not have his own schemes for your city, beyond those which his dark master ordered?" She shook her fair head. "No," she said. "Master Meriadoc told me that his spies were as far afield as their fair land. Why would he not have spies here too, in the fastness of Mundburg? And if he did, what corruptions did his agents here attempt?" As they had corrupted Meduseld.

"Was not the evil wrought upon my father by the _palant_ _í_ _r_ enough?"

"For such as Saruman? No," she said, speaking as one that knew. "It would not be enough."

She watched him carefully. She had the distinct impression that she had frightened him, badly. She stroked the back of his hand. She had no wish to hurt him. She would leap in front of anyone who tried to hurt him; put herself between them. As he, no doubt, would be busy doing for her.

"I met Curunír once," he said, at last. "Before the army. I was fifteen. He came to the City to speak to my father and some of the lords. They spent many hours in conclave. A few months later, my father passed a law that all who were found in Ithilien without the leave of the Lord of Gondor were to be slain. No trial, no mercy…"

A law he was bound to execute.

"I regretted that law each time I upheld it," he said, quietly. "I did not regret the one time I broke it."

She leaned her head against him. "It would be someone close to your father," she said. "Who was close to him?"

"Nobody was close to him," he said. "Sauron, it seems, was closest…" He sighed. "My brother, first and foremost. One or two council members, lords of the city. Húrin, of course…"

He had not listed himself. "Húrin," she said. "I've heard this name often – and seen him now and again, from a distance. But who is he, precisely?"

"The Warden of the Keys."

"That means nothing to me, love."

"Commands the city guard. Good at gathering news – and preventing its spread."

Now she understood. "Your father's spymaster."

"Also my uncle by marriage – to my father's sister. Who was close to my father? He would know, if anyone would." He shrugged, shaking off their conversation, and stood. He offered his hand, and she let him pull her up. "I'll talk to him tomorrow."

* * *

[3]

At the door to the Houses, they embraced. She held him in her arms, fierce and loving. "I am sorry if what I said has disturbed you."

He noticed she did not take it back, however. And since she was, out of the two of them, the one who knew best how the wizard had worked, he must believe her. Why would he doubt her? She was the most truthful person that he knew. He said, "I am disturbed, yes. As I should be. But I have heard you. I am listening."

They kissed goodnight, and he left her to her rest. He walked home slowly under the stars, thinking. Inside, the house was quiet, and he went straight up the stairs to bed.

He had hitherto resisted attempts to move him into the master bedroom. There was enough about his day-to-day life that was raw: taking his father's seat at tables, answering to the title, odd reminders here and there – a pen, some notes scratched in that meticulous hand, the absence of his heavy tread about the place. The room had been cleared (his father had left little personal trace, which saddened him, as if everything had, over the years, been pared down to nothing), and aired, but for now it could stand empty. The thought of lying alone in that bed… No. There was no need to punish himself for being alive. Instead, each night, he went back to his own quiet rooms at the back of the house, familiar and safe.

He was, in general, sleeping well these days. She too said that the terrors had more or less passed, only the odd scare every so often. Piece by piece the horrors were receding, relics of a passing age. Tonight, however, he was restless. He recalled now in detail that meeting with Curunír: one of the more frightening episodes of his life, when he had understood for the first time that he and his father differed in profound ways, and that this might one day bring them into conflict. And so it had been, more and more over the years, until that last bitter exchange.

There were differences in kind, he thought, between the malice of Sauron and the poison of Curunír. The first brought about despair, an annihilation of self and spirit, the destruction of the will to resist, whereupon one acquiesced in one's own extinction. Curunír, so he understood, corroded one's scruples, one's sense of what was true and right, set brother against brother, nephew against uncle, friend against friend. Mistrust became rife, such that men and women could not find comfort in each other, those necessary ties of love and fellowship that were, in the end, the best and only defence against darkness. Had it been so here? And if so, who had wrought such an evil? _Who was our Gr_ _í_ _ma?_

How lonely she had been, he thought, suddenly. Everyone who might come to her aid, picked off, one by one: uncle unmanned, cousin killed, brother in chains, that snake slithering every closer. He was by no means a violent man, but he knew that if ever he came face to face with Gríma, he would be hard pressed to stop himself. Her brother must feel the same way. But she had survived; of course, she had survived. How much he loved that fierce and fearless spirit that had driven her south, bringing her to him, so he could love her and stand beside her…

 _Who was our Gr_ _í_ _ma…?_

At some point in all this contemplation, he fell asleep, and he dreamed, vividly. In the dream, he was talking to his father. Denethor was obscured, as if sitting to one side, but his presence was unmistakeable, that heavy brooding figure that had always loomed large over everything. They were holding one of those conversations that happens in dream, where the logic of the exchanges is elusive, and desperation takes hold that one can never make oneself understood. He had often felt this way, talking to his father. Partway through, he took charge and told himself: _This is not happening. This cannot and will not happen_.

The spell was broken. He woke up. Outside, it was faintly dawn. He would not sleep more, so he rose and dressed, and went to work, coming to his desk, as ever, some time before everyone else. When at last others began to arrive, Húrin came too, as he always did, to speak to the Lord of Gondor.

He reported on some trouble from the night before, an altercation on the second level. Some men from the Vale the worse for drink, making too free with some city women. Some thefts on the third level; there had been a spate of looting directly after the victory, and they were keen not to see this take root again. Húrin had heard a few whispers of complaint about the slowness of the repairs of the water supplies further round the third – that task could be shifted up the rota. And they spent a little time discussing the arrangements for the coronation – where the dangers might lie, if any, and when and how to retrieve the crown. Here his mind began to wander.

"Are you well, sir?" said Húrin, at last. "You seem tired."

"I am tired today," he admitted. "So much to do. But I am well."

"I know this must be difficult."

Did he mean the whole of it, or simply the matter of the crown? It lay, after all, upon the tomb of the last king, Eärnur, where he rested in the Silent Street. If the Steward were to retrieve it, he must go that way.

"I would suggest that I go and fetch the thing," said Húrin. "But I know you'll refuse."

"Yes." He sat for a while, and then said, quietly, "I still wonder, about Father's last days and hours. I know all that happened, the bare events, but I wish I understood better what brought him so low—"

"What is there to understand?" Húrin's voice was harsh. "He was a man besieged. He could see no way through the darkness. If you only knew how you looked, when they brought you home…" He collected himself. "You mustn't torment yourself with this," he said. "Please, sir. It cannot be changed. Put it behind you. They were terrible times. Done now. Better times ahead."

And that was it – subject closed. There was a delegation from Harad wishing to speak to him, and the morning's correspondence from Cormallen. _Who was our Gr_ _í_ _ma_? he thought, sifting through his papers. _Is he still amongst us?_

* * *

[TBC...]


	2. Chapter 2

[4]

That evening, after supper, they sat on the steps of the terrace, overlooking the garden. He was polishing his boots. As he worked, he recounted his meeting with Húrin and, as he talked, she watched his hands, moving around in a small quick circular motion: practiced, precise, and very economical. She wondered why he was doing this – surely there was someone to do this for him? – and listened to the end of his tale with mounting alarm. "He didn't answer? He evaded your question?"

"I hardly got the chance to ask—"

"Worse." Reaching down, she picked up his other boot. His hand stopped dead for a second and his eyes, fixed on the boot, narrowed. She did not put it back down. Eventually, he went back to work.

"Love," he said, "I understand why you might be suspicious, but I cannot believe such a thing of Húrin. He has known me since I was a boy. He was kind to us, when Mama died…"

She reached for the polish. He sighed. "One day he took us around, Boromir and me, and showed us all the secret ways of the city."

Well, she thought, had the darkness come sooner, there might well have come a time when they would need to know these in order to escape the hordes. His face was closed; it was clear the thought had occurred to him too, long ago. Still, it was a point in the man's favour that he had sought to protect two boys in this way.

She picked up another rag, twisting it around her index and middle finger in the way he had done. She began to rub, slowly at first, then gathering pace. Circular, round and round; soothing. She could see why he did this for himself. "Who else was as near your father, then?" she said. "Who else had ready access?"

He was watching her hands. She was copying his action very closely. "I could ask the servants, I suppose," he said. "They would have seen a great deal. They might know something."

It took her a moment to grasp who exactly he meant. Sometimes he was too elusive.

"When you say his servants—?" Six men, Denethor had summoned to his bonfire, to carry the bier of his still-living son.

"It's not a meeting I've been eager to have. But I suppose it must be done."

Her hand stopped dead. "Surely they are not on your staff!"

"What? No, by no means! I must confess I have no idea where they are. I haven't cared to ask. Húrin will know."

Indeed, it seemed Húrin knew everything. He reached over to set her hand in motion again, and dutifully, she went back to work. "He had a spy in the company, you know," he said, almost conversationally. "Amongst the Rangers."

"Húrin did?"

"No, Father, of course! Who else? One of my lieutenants. He wrote to him monthly, reporting on my actions. For the whole of my captaincy. Thirteen years. Fair reports, on the whole, I think. There was little to fault. At least, I would like to think so. Although Father did have a knack for finding fault."

Spying on his own son. She rubbed a little harder. "When did you find out?"

"Early on. I'm not a fool. And he was right to mistrust me. _Yours to command_ , I would say to him. I wasn't, in the end. And he knew that years ago, long before I did. I was not his to command. I see now that this was the root of all our troubles." He stopped work. He looked over what he had done, nodded in satisfaction, and put the boot down beside him.

"I also ignored orders," she said. "To stay in Dunharrow."

He reached across, stilling her hand. She offered him the boot. He took it, and put it down beside the other, twitching them slightly until they were perfectly aligned. "I am not sorry," he said.

"Neither am I."

* * *

[5]

He had arranged to meet Húrin down on the first circle the next morning, where a small dispute was holding up the clearing work near the Gate. At the very least, he was keen to have the square behind the Gate look presentable for the King's entrance. The back streets could take care of themselves for a while. The simple presence of the Steward, eyes sharp, nodding at their complaints, went some way to ameliorate the situation, and work began again without him having to promise more than that he would consider their requests. Sometimes, he thought, people simply want to be heard. As he left, he heard one of them say: _You'd never have seen his father down here._

He walked with Húrin back up the levels. The sound of sawing and hammering was everywhere. Every so often they would detour from the main path to check on some particular area, badly hit by fire, perhaps, or by the blows from the Enemy's war machines. The damage in places was grievous, and the work seemed agonisingly slow. They were short of everything, but particularly of labour. He longed to offer to the King a city fair and shimmering, to be able to say, _Look how well we Stewards kept our oath_. But he knew, in his heart, that the wonder was that there was a city to give back at all, and that one day, with work and patience, she would flower again. He was a patient man, and he was willing to work.

One could not escape the racket of the repairs. Most of the men were fresh from the Houses from Healing, had barely been standing a week ago, but had taken up the tasks full willing. He saw many of his Rangers, and others of those who had fought the retreat back from the river and not been able to march for the Morannon. He often stopped to talk, or saluted them as he passed. There were women and children returning too, more heartening sounds of life, and some of these called out to him: _Captain! Captain Faramir!_ One woman ran out of her home to embrace him, weeping into his shoulder, and he said quiet words of comfort.

Their progress upwards was slow, although both men knew the worth of each meeting and conversation. Húrin, he was sure, would be glad to see the effect on morale. So it was some time before they were somewhere quiet enough for him to say, "Where are they now? The men who carried me to Father's pyre?"

Húrin gave him a narrow look. "Don't you have enough to keep you busy?"

"I'd like to know. Six of them, weren't there? Where are they now?"

"Two died at Beregond's hand. One…"

"Go on."

"One hanged himself, the same morning."

He stopped in his tracks, bent over, put his hands on his knees, and sucked in air. When the world stopped spinning, he stood up again. "Go on," he said, more grimly.

"A fourth died on the Pelennor. The other two I moved away from the White Tower – I assumed you wouldn't want them on your staff."

"No." They walked on. "Two then. I'd like to speak to them."

Húrin, placing his hand upon his upper arm, moved him towards a quiet corner near the walls. They stood close together. He dropped his voice to a whisper. "What is this all about, Faramir?"

"I have questions—"

"You should try to put this behind you. It was a terrible time. By the grace of the Valar we have come through. I know who these men are. I know where they are. When the King comes, we can hear their case – like Beregond's – and let him pass judgement. Hand this on. You do not have to punish yourself this way."

For himself, he had no desire ever to look these men in the face. But if there was something they knew, or had seen, something that could inform him… _Who was our Gr_ _í_ _ma?_

"I'd like to speak to them," he said again. He saw the look in Húrin's face: _Stubborn, like your father_.

"Very well, my lord Steward," he said.

They parted company in the Court of the Fountain, but he did not return immediately to the White Tower. Instead, he went home and lay on his bed. His head was hammering. He fell at once into a deep sleep, and he dreamed, unambiguously, of fire, and of his father, withering. He rose at once and returned to work, immersing himself completely until the hour came when he could go to the Houses, and take her arm.

* * *

[6]

She was regretting, slightly, that she had started him on this line of enquiry. When he came to find her, she saw, for the first time in many days, shadow-smudges beneath his eyes, and he stopped first by the Warden of the House to ask for a sleeping draught.

They walked home. She leaned into him; he sighed softly, in relief. At supper, he picked at his food – his appetite was usually a thing to behold – and when they stood up, she quietly asked the servant to send some plates to the library. They would be in there tonight, she thought. He retreated there, she had noticed, when his spirits were low.

They walked around the garden first. The evening was cool, and she was sure of rain. When they went indoors again it was indeed to the library, warm and snug, although untidier than the last time she had been here. He pointed to a stack of books on the floor. "I've been reordering them."

"Oh yes?"

"I want the poetry together."

"Where is it now?"

"Dispersed. Father shelved everything according to who was ruling at the time. Accounts of their reign first. Cases of law next. Then everything else. Customs, lore, lays, and so on."

"Functional."

"At least it means I'll never forget a date. But I want the poetry all together."

"Functional and beautiful."

"All the best things are."

She surveyed the chaos he had created. "Very well. We should begin."

Not much later in life, she would know that this urge to reorder his books came over him every so often. He would empty whole shelves at a time, stacking them up, and hours later she would come past and find him sitting on the floor, reading. She would soon learn that the point was not to put the books in any order, but simply to be amongst them, and she would leave him to it. But this – this was the first time, and she threw herself into the task, as she did every task that came her way. Under her direction, some order was quickly restored.

"I had a nightmare earlier," he said, as if speaking about the weather. "Fire."

She pushed the book she was holding into place, and turned him. "My love?"

He was standing stock still, rigid, a big black book held closed between his hands. "I am starting to see enemies everywhere. The cook. I find myself looking at the cook and thinking – did you give him something that addled his mind?"

"I ate well at supper," she said. "To no ill effect."

"Some poisons take years."

She removed the book from his hand, and put it on the pile. She led him over to the couch, where she made him eat what had been laid out, and she watched every single mouthful go in until he was done. She made him drink some wine. "Perhaps you should stop these enquiries."

"Húrin has asked me to leave be. But no. I am going to meet the servants tomorrow – or the ones that are still living. Two out of the six that aided him."

"Where?"

"In my office at the White Tower."

Was that neutral territory? She was not entirely sure. "I will be with you."

"Please," he said, with relief.

Faintly, from across the Court, they heard the Tower bell begin to sound the eleventh hour. Well past time for her to leave. He would walk her back, and come home, and take the Warden's draught, and he would sleep, yes, but the dreams would not go away. They would simply bide their time.

The last bell rang. In its wake, he reached across to place his hand against her face. She leaned into his touch. Gently, he stroked her cheek with his thumb. "I wish," he said, "that you could—"

"I will stay here tonight," she said.

"Please," he said.

* * *

[TBC...]


	3. Chapter 3

[7]

The master bedroom looked much better the following morning, and breakfast was the sweetest he could recall in years. They sat with their hands clasped on the table. _This_ , he thought, _this is the life I have longed to live_. They left the house a little later than his usual time, and she walked with him over to the White Tower. His office there was slowly taking on his imprint of methodical disorder. She found a seat near the window behind his desk, where she sat, demurely, eyes down. She had found some embroidery from somewhere that she was using as cover. He sat in his seat behind his desk. He sat ramrod straight, hands steepled before him, expression stern. He knew how much he looked like his father, but young and strong, as if the fire had purified and restored him.

The first of them came in. He was a tall man, strong. Húrin had sent both of them out to help with the clearing work on the Pelennor, on the grounds, he said, that they'd be lucky to escape with only a little hard labour. He took one look at the Steward's face, and burst into tears. "Oh Valar," he said. "My lord. Forgive me!"

Faramir turned to look at her. She shook her head.

"My lord, please, I beg you – forgive me!" He fell to his knees, his hands covering his face. Faramir felt a surge of compassion. What must those last hours have been like? How must it have been? He knew, none better, how his father could command a man, make him act in such a way that was against his nature and judgement. He should not have asked this man to come and see him.

"Please," he said softly. "Stand up."

After a moment or two, the man collected himself. He stood, head hanging down, waiting for the hammer blow.

"I should not have asked you here," said the Steward. "It was unfair. The King, when he returns, will hear this case. In the meantime – go back to your duties. You are doing good work."

The man backed towards the door: _Thank you, my lord; the Valar guard and guide you, my lord…_ and fled. Faramir leaned back in his chair.

"Some men," she remarked, from behind him, "have not much about them. There was nothing we could learn from him."

"Let us hope the second has more wit."

This one, when he came in, stood in front of the desk twisting his hands about. Faramir let him sweat for a while, and eventually the man began to speak. "Sir, I know what we did was wrong… Sir, if you had only seen him. To see him broken in that way—"

He lifted his hand to stop the flow. He heard from many others, others whom he loved and admired, how his father had been, and that had been hard enough. "I have not asked you here to talk about that. The King will hear the case on his return. But you were beside my father throughout those last months, were you not?"

"Sir, yes, that was my privilege—"

"Who saw him regularly during this time? After my brother left, say." He himself had been away much of this time too: at the garrison in Osgiliath and then, towards the end of the year, the long journey around the fiefdoms, bargaining with their lords to secure their aid for Minas Tirith. And then to Ithilien.

The man swallowed and closed his eyes. He seemed to be thinking hard. "The Council. Lord Minardil in particular. He always found time to hear from him." He heard her stir. But the man wasn't finished. "But Lord Húrin, sir, surely he would know best of all. He would always see the Lord Húrin. You should speak to him."

After the man was dismissed, he turned to her. "I know what you're about to say—"

"Húrin. It always comes back to Húrin."

"I wish I could explain why I cannot believe it. It would be… as if your cousin had turned out to be in league with Gríma."

She flushed, and he saw that had hit the mark. He reached out to look at her handiwork. She was very neat.

She took his hand. He was glad of the touch. He was shaking, very slightly. "It's done now," she said. "Leave the rest to the King."

* * *

[8]

"So," she said, as she brushed then fixed her hair. "Tell me about this lord he named."

She was dressing for the evening, a fairly formal occasion for the Steward to meet the new lords who had come into their inheritance as a result of the war. He was lying on the bed, watching her, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, hands behind his head. He was beautiful, and he was hers. _This,_ she thought, _this is the life I wanted to lead_.

"I didn't know him particularly well," he said. "My father was hardly the kind to have regular visitors to the house. I believed they served together as young men. And he was present the time I met Curunír…"

"Ah."

"There were many more meetings at the time. I was not at those."

"What did your brother make of him?"

"I forget if we ever discussed him in particular. He – we – had no reason to mistrust him. He is sharp, clever, cool. He gave my father, so far as we knew, good advice. He paid his taxes and did not seek too many favours. If you had asked me about him before this, I would have said that I did not like him, but that he loved Gondor. And that was sufficient for the times."

She went over to the long mirror. She was all in white. He had given her, from his mother's possessions, a silver headpiece which she lifted up and set in place. The diamond glittered on her brow. "What is our plan of action for the evening?"

He rubbed his hands together. "I have a lot of leeway at the moment," he said. He was almost playful. "People are keen to win my favour, but they are not sure how. It is proving to be of some benefit to me at last, to have been the less-preferred son. Some of them never bothered with me before. Now they find themselves scrambling for my attention."

"Good," she said.

"So I will keep myself busy. And thus they will be forced to come and find you – Minardil amongst them. And you yourself are an object of interest now, of course. Sister to the king of our greatest ally. My wife-to-be. And you are as much unknown – if renowned." He smiled. "Lady Wraithbane."

"I will enjoy speaking to them."

He stood up, and put on his sword belt. He crossed the room to join her. He took her arm, and rested his other hand upon the hilt of his sword. They stood and looked at themselves in the mirror. White and gold; black and silver. In both their faces, she could still see, faintly, the etched lines of the years of grief and loss and despair, now forged into authority. _How stern we look_ , she thought. _How austere. The King is lucky to have us._

"Will we do?"

"We will do very well."

When at last they made their entrance, she felt the cool collective eye of the court of Gondor upon her, and she was not afraid. _Lady Wraithbane_ , she thought, as she entered the hall upon his arm, and she recalled another name, another fearless woman. _Steelsheen_.

 _Mother of my mother_ , she thought. _All honour to you tonight, in these halls of your home that will be my home in turn._

They reached the dais and turned to face the gathering. Slowly the company began to mingle. He took the left of the room; she took the right. She watched him make his way, straight as an arrow, to the widows, the mothers of dead sons, the young men of fourteen and fifteen and sixteen who had found themselves unaccountably lords of Gondor. Their fathers would have been his friends. She saw the older lords frustrated that his attention was elsewhere and, as he had predicted, they soon came to court her. _Yes_ , she thought, as Minardil introduced himself, and spoke to a point behind her left ear, _I know this kind very well_. She was a vessel to them, a conduit, a means to reach him, or her brother. Minardil quizzed her in particular about the King. They all came past at some point to look at her, these lords, all except one. The Warden of the Keys kept quietly to one corner, and she watched him, watching the Steward.

* * *

[9]

Later, lying on the bed, he watched her remove the headdress and unfasten her hair. Yes, she was beautiful, but more than that she was on his side. With her beside him, he felt defended.

"Very cool," she said, "the lords of Gondor. Very closed. Éomer might struggle here."

But she, he thought, would not.

She began to brush her hair. He rose from the bed, and came to stand behind her. He retrieved the brush from her, and set to work. "What did you make of Minardil?"

She shrugged. "Who can guess? He gave nothing away. He barely looked at me."

"His mistake."

"He is not enthusiastic about his new liege-lord."

"No," he said. "Some aren't."

He gathered her long hair and laid it down over her shoulder, leaving the nape of her neck bare. He bent down and kissed her there. He thought, _I will not have to do this alone_.

In the middle of the night, he woke up, his mind whirling. What was the objective? What was to be gained? Gríma's intention had been plain: to remove her cousin and her brother and, through her, to rule in Meduseld. But what would have been the reward on offer here? Denethor corrupted, unmanned – but the Steward had heirs. So what had been the plan for his sons? And, in the event of their removal, who could make a claim, as Gríma had intended through Éowyn?

(He pushed his fingernails into his palms at that. The thought of her, taken as his wife; the thought of her shackled to him, bearing him children. Yes, all would have been done correctly, appropriately, and with great ceremony, and all twisted out of shape, debased. A mockery of marriage. He felt sick. He struggled to master himself. He recalled what Húrin said: _You do not have to punish yourself this way_. It would not, it could not, happen.)

Húrin's son, Hador, had a claim, through his mother, Denethor's sister. Hador was dead now, killed on the Pelennor. What about Minardil? Had he intended to succeed? There was no direct link – although if one went far back enough, they were all related, more or less. But he had been close to Denethor. Did he mean to be the Steward's steward, taking over rule as Mardil had after the death of Eärnur?

And, if so, what had been the plan for the sons?

He turned to lie on his side. He dreaded these wakeful nights, when he lay in the darkness willing himself to rest, while all the time his mind fretted and worked against him. It had become worse after Boromir left, and the burden fell entirely upon him to keep watch over their father as best he could. There had been one week at the start of the year, just after _mettar_ _ë_ , when his father had greyed perceptibly, and he had barely slept for worry. He had gone through the motions of each day with teeth clenched and eyes burning, willing his body onwards. Sometimes, he knew, he thought too much.

She stirred beside him. He reached for her, setting his hand gently upon her side. Her hand came out instinctively to take his. They shifted closer to each other. _I do not have to do this alone_. He closed his eyes, breathed along with her, and, in time, sleep returned, and he rested.

* * *

[10]

She was busy in the store cupboard when she felt a shadow fall upon her. She finished winding up the bandage she was holding, before turning to see who it was.

Húrin was standing in the doorway, blocking the exit. She reached to touch the knife upon her belt. Seeing this, he moved out of the way, and she came out into the corridor. "My lady," he said, holding up his hands to show the palms, his voice calm and conciliatory. "I mean you no harm."

"May I ask why you are here? I am busy—"

"About the Steward…"

"Yes?"

"Please, my lady – whatever is happening, persuade him to let it drop."

"Let what drop?"

"Whatever has entered his mind—"

"Perhaps he is right to be suspicious. Perhaps there is unfinished business here—"

"Unfinished business?" He blinked; he looked bewildered. "What unfinished business?"

"Don't you know?"

"No, my lady, no…" He gathered his authority to him. "If there is, I will take care of it. But this is not good for him—"

"No?" she said.

"No," he said. "I think not."

Behind her was the open corridor. She moved around, to stand with her back to the wall, forcing him to move so that his back was unprotected. "You know for sure what is best for him?"

He looked away from her, down at the ground. "Lady," he said, and again his voice was very calm, "he is my lord. He is the son of a man whom I served for many years, a man that despite all I admired and respected."

"But did not love."

Now he looked at her again, and his face was pained and sad. "No, my lady. Denethor did not inspire love. That was the privilege of his sons."

He turned and left. She leaned back against the wall; breathed out slowly. He had frightened her, inadvertently, perhaps, but still, she did not like this. _Unfinished business –_ had she been clear enough in her warning? She had not prepared for this conversation; had not expected it. And what had he meant – _he would take care of it?_ She went back into the cupboard, this time blocking the entrance with a wooden box, and making sure she did not turn her back to it. All afternoon she pondered his words, but this came back to her most often: _Love was the privilege of his sons_.

* * *

[11]

His afternoon, which generally consisted of a slew of correspondence, was enlivened by the arrival of Húrin. If enlivened was the right word – the Warden of the Keys stood in front of his desk, fidgeting.

"Whatever is the matter?" said the Steward. He had never seen Húrin like this before.

"I spoke to the Lady Éowyn earlier," Húrin said.

"Why does this necessitate an afternoon visit from you?"

Even to his own ears he sounded uncannily like his father. The older man looked – if this were possible – abashed by his reply. "I know that you are trying to learn something," he said. "I could ask, but I doubt you would tell me. For some reason I have become untrustworthy. But I asked her to make you stop."

Very slowly, he put down his pen. "You did what?"

"I am sorry—"

"You went to _her_ to put pressure on _me_?"

"Not pressure, Faramir—"

"Then what exactly?" Again, that voice.

It had its effect: Húrin had to take a moment to collect himself. "I know something is afoot."

" _Afoot_ …?"

"Why else would you want to quiz those servants?"

"You think I might not reasonably have questions about my father's death?"

"That I could not answer for you? Faramir! I have known you since you were a babe-in-arms!"

Icily, he replied, "Some time has passed since then, my lord."

The silence crackled between them. In a muted voice, Húrin said, "I misjudged. I apologise."

Faramir picked up his pen and began to write. He was angry; very angry, but he did not intend to say something that he would regret. After a moment, he heard Húrin walk towards the door. Before the man left, he said, "I am – I always have been, and I always will be – your ally in this city, Faramir. But you must trust me."

* * *

[TBC...]


	4. Chapter 4

[12]

That evening, they sat peaceably in the library together, each busy with their own task. She had found a stone, and was sharpening her knife. "I had a visitor this afternoon," she said.

"Oh yes?" He was threading a needle. "So did I."

"Húrin?"

He picked up the next sock and set to work, quick precise stitches up and down the frayed part. "Húrin."

"He came to find me in the Houses of Healing," she said, stroking the blade firmly. "Asked me to persuade you to let be."

"So he said." He twisted his work round in his hand; began the weave to patch the hole. "I'm afraid I was angry with him."

She tested the edge, and was satisfied. "But your faith in him is not shaken?"

"No…" He finished up, put the sock to one side, and then reached to his belt to pass her his knife. She got to work on the blade, and waited as he threaded the needle yet again and was ready to speak.

"As time passed," he said, "Father began to exclude me more. But I was never entirely cut out. If there was something Father had not seen fit to tell me, Húrin generally found a way to keep me informed." He picked up the next sock and set to. "I wonder why now. To sow seeds of dissension?"

"Or because he knew your worth?"

He finished the current stitch and turned to look at her. "Is this a change of heart, love?"

"I am confused," she admitted. "He seemed… When we spoke, he did not seem false to me. And you believe in him. You are not a poor judge of character."

"Then we are back where we started," he said. "Who was our Gríma?"

"We come back to the council," she said. "You say you were excluded?"

"Certainly the invitation to attend the council came less frequently in later years. Of course, the excuse was that I was in Ithilien, and that the journey was increasingly perilous, but it was one I made regularly when the need arose. After Boromir set out for Rivendell, and I took over his command, it was not so easy to omit me. And then… Well. Let us say I did not often like what I heard."

"So, somebody there?"

"So it seems." He sighed, reached for the already mended sock, rolled the pair together, and threw them on the pile. "I am tired, love. Shall we sleep?"

* * *

[13]

This time, when he woke, he did not stay at her side, but got up. He needed to think, properly, and that meant movement. Pulling on shirt and breeches and boots, he went out into the garden, where he paced up and down. Twelve steps forward; twelve steps back.

The corrosion of scruples, he thought, as he paced, and the setting of men against those who should be comrades. This was Curunír's way. In the years during which he had been sidelined, he would sit in Ithilien, and receive his father's latest dictums, and his heart would fall further at the news of ever harsher laws and punishments. He watched the slow erosion of the power of the magistrates, their functions passing over to the captains of the army. He saw new crimes created – lowering morale, entering the upper levels of the city without proper permissions, insulting the Steward. He saw impressment introduced for ever younger men – boys, some of them. Hopeless; dead within weeks.

In Ithilien, he could do nothing to stop the rot. Sometimes he wrote to his father to ask that some new restriction be reconsidered, but there was never a response. And sometimes – no, Valar help him, _often_ – he upheld these laws, against his judgement, as he was bound by oath to do. As time wore in, he saw himself as complicit, and when he was called to the council in his brother's place, he hoped that perhaps it might be possible to prevent some of this, or turn it back. He remembered that first session he attended, and that growing sense of unease in the pit of his stomach as he listened to the habits of thought into which the others had fallen. And, beneath it all, the terrifying sense that his father's grip was slipping. That the Rammas was going unrepaired. That his company, spread so thin since the disaster of the bridge, could no longer police the east bank of the river effectively, and he had no real information about what the Enemy was doing in Osgiliath. He asked again and again for more resources, and each time he was refused.

And then he recalled the meeting he had attended at the start of March, before the assault on the city began in earnest. He had listened with mounting horror as a new law was debated, a law such as the one he upheld in Ithilien, in which travellers between the river and the Rammas who did not have the Steward's leave were to be slain. He could see no justification: there would be people moving about who had fled their homes, who had nowhere to turn, who were coming for aid… Were these to be killed without trial? He listened to the cursory debate, and the quick acceptance, and he thought: _What have we become?_ The others left, and he remained to beg his father to reconsider.

The quarrel got out of hand rapidly even by their standards. His father poured scorn on his delicacy; pointed out that this was not peace time, but war. And he said back to him: _Is this how it is then, sir? Are we to surrender everything? Are we to become the Enemy to defeat the Enemy?_

How cold his father became then; how angry. _You may go now, Lord Faramir._ And in return he said: _Yes, yes – I shall go. There is nothing I could give that would be wanted here_. He left the room, eyes flashing, face burning. Outside the chamber, others from the council, Minardil amongst them, were in quiet conversation. He heard murmurings as he strode past. They had all seen his anger and humiliation. Most likely they had heard the quarrel too.

In the Court, the cold air of March brought him back to his senses. He stared at the dead tree until he was himself again. He turned and went back inside, intending to apologise, but when he reached the door to the council room, someone blocked his entrance. He recalled now a hand upon his chest, and the man who stepped out from the shadows said, softly: _"It would be better if you let his mood run its course_. _"_

So soft that voice; so persuasive. Yes – how much easier to let matters lie a while, to not have to face his father's fury once again. No – he did not have to punish himself in this way; he did not _deserve_ to be punished in this way. So he acquiesced. He did not go in and make the peace. He turned and went away. Later in the day he tried again, but he could not gain admittance. He left that afternoon, still bruised, on his errand to Ithilien. He broke the law, and let the Ringbearer go, and returned home to face those later, uglier exchanges.

This was what he remembered now, as he paced his garden, twelve steps forwards, twelve steps back. He remembered, and understood. Quickly, he went back up the bedroom. She had conquered the whole bed in his absence, and was lying spread out diagonally. He bent down and gently set his hand upon her arm. He did not want to startle her from her sleep; he did not want to frighten her, and neither did he want a knife to his throat.

"Love," he said, as her eyes flickered open. "Do not be afraid. It's me. I know now who it is."

* * *

[14]

She sat up in bed, a blanket wrapped around her, and listened to him explain. His eyes were bright, almost febrile.

"I _always_ apologised," he said. "Even when my mind was unchanged – I always apologised. In part because his pride mattered more to him that mine did to me, but more – to be at odds with him, the last lord of Númenor, it felt almost _profane_ …"

She watched him tuck in his shirt, hunt around for a tunic and his sword belt.

"But not that time," he went on. "I left without giving my apology. Love, I know it hung heavy in my mind. How must it have weighed on him? It must have _festered_ …"

"This is it," she said, scrambling out of bed, looking around for clothes of her own. "This was the Worm's method. Ever helpful, ever courteous. Always ready to assist – and yet all the time driving a wedge between those who should be bound by love and loyalty."

"He must have gone back in, said I had left in anger… No wonder I could not get to see him later in the day." He stopped still, halfway to the door, his face stricken. "When I returned home, having let the Ringbearer go, he was so angry with me, Éowyn…"

"Yes," she said, "we have him. Who was it?"

* * *

[15]

"Minardil was only ever a means to an end," he said, as they dashed down the circles. "Useful to keep my father on his course of ever-more punitive laws, eroding morale, causing despair. I doubt Minardil would have survived the taking of the City – or perhaps he might have sued for peace should Saruman have come into possession of the Ring. But who else was there – all the time? To step between me and my father? To tell him I had gone? To tell me he would not see me?"

"Not one of the lords."

"No indeed. The lords didn't bother with me. But the servants—"

"The servants."

They had come to the barracks on the second level where the workmen lived. The Steward asked for the man to be sent for. He came – the second one they had met – after only a little while, and he bowed and said, "My lord. How can I serve you?"

Then he looked up, and they could see from the change in his face that he knew why they were there. "Ah," he said. "I must say, I'm surprised to have been so free to move around for so long." He smiled at the Steward. "Your father would not have been so remiss."

This, Faramir realised later, was the most dangerous moment, when his temper, rarely roused beyond control, blazed within him, and he nearly stepped too close. But she was there already, with her knife to the man's throat. "Bitch," he said, and then to the Steward: "It took very little to tip him over in the end. A shame he didn't take you with him."

Figures moved forwards from the shadows. Húrin was there, with the city guard, and the man was soon disarmed and taken away. Húrin waited until they were alone, and said, "The confession will be useful, but I would have preferred to use my own methods. Might we continue this conversation in the comfort of the Tower – my lord, my lady?"

They walked back up the levels, hand-in-hand. "Love," he said to her, when the shaking had subsided, "I am glad you are on our side."

* * *

[16]

She moved to sit quietly as these two lords of Gondor faced each other, although she did take the precaution first of closing the window, so that the argument might not be heard around the Court, then to make its way around the whole City.

"What were you hoping to achieve?" said Húrin, standing tall and blazing with fury. "Did you consider that you might be putting yourself in danger? Never mind the lady—"

Faramir was pacing up and down, kicking papers out of his way. "I can take care of myself. We both can take of ourselves—"

"You are no longer simply a Captain! You are the _Steward_! There will be threats you will not have imagined – no, Faramir, not even you! I know more about the ways of this City than any man alive – I have watched and guarded it since before you were born. But most of all – you cannot take this burden upon yourself. This work is for me – not least so that you can, if needed, deny knowledge of my actions. But most of all – so that you can rest easy knowing that I am keeping watch—"

Faramir spun round on his heel. "Are you having _me_ watched? Is that how you arrived so quickly?"

"Watched? Of course I am having you watched! My eye strayed from you once and you were nearly burned alive! I kept watch over you and your brother for years. The sons of the Steward! I knew how the loss of you would ruin him! Each time you rode into the wilds my heart froze in my chest, knowing you were beyond my protection!"

Éowyn leaned forward. "Love," she said. He came and clasped her hand; his other hand went up to clutch the top of his head.

When Húrin spoke again his voice was softer, gentler. "I have watched you since your father held you in his arms and presented you to the whole court, fair Finduilas at his side. When she died, and he was left alone, I swore to protect the sons. I have watched you grow into a man of courage and integrity, struggling to serve loyally a lord who all but made that task impossible. And now I shall gladly watch you come into the honours you richly deserve. You are the Lord of Gondor, sir, and I am yours – until the King returns."

Neither of them could stop their smiles.

"Whereupon," said Húrin, calm again, "he may consider me a shared resource." He came to stand in front of the Steward, put his hand upon the other man's shoulder, and placed a kiss upon his brow. "We have sworn the same oaths, Faramir. Now, I beg you – do the work that is yours, and let me do the work that is mine. And let us put the past behind us." He turned to Éowyn, and bowed. " _Unfinished business_ , my lady. Thank you for that warning. I shall be glad of your presence at court. But please – keep yourself and your lord under control." His eyes sparkled at her. "And remember who your friends are."

She smiled, and offered him her hand, which he kissed with great courtesy. Then he made to leave. At the door he stopped to look back at them. "In general, however," he said. "I believe we will all do very well."

* * *

[17]

 _Two weeks later, the day before the Coronation_

In the end, he took Húrin with him when he went to retrieve the crown. They passed through Fen Hollen, and walked the long and silent path. He kept his eyes on the ground ahead, but at last he had to look.

The ruin was gone, cleared and cleansed, no sign of the crimes and treacheries that had occurred there barely six weeks earlier. There was an empty space where the Stewards' House had once stood, waiting for what would come next. He knew who had seen this work done, so quickly and despite the lack of men, in time for when he must come this way. He nodded his thanks, and they walked on.

 _We will all do very well_.

* * *

[18]

 _Some months later, Edoras, shortly after Yule_

That Yule, Meduseld shone as more brightly than it had in years, with the new young king at its heart. His sister still held the house in her keeping – but not for much longer. Soon there would be a fair new queen – and the White Lady would leave for Ithilien.

Into this happiness came letters from the north, full of news, and there was one in particular for her, from Master Holdwine, bearing tidings. As she read about those two last squalid deaths, she felt a weight lift from her, and she tasted in full the sweetness of triumph and victory. And then the sorrow of those long and lonely years washed over her, the fear and the dread, and the hall dimmed. She looked around blindly for him, saw him standing across the hall; and when he saw her face he frowned, and was at her side in moments.

Together, they slipped away from the company. They found a quiet and private place, and she read the letter to him. Then she put herself into his arms, into his care, and wept like a child. And when that was done, and all was washed away, she let him wipe away the tears.

She said to him, "I am ready to go home now."

* * *

 _ **Notes:**_

For Faramir's meeting with Saruman see _Wizards' Pupils._ More on Lord Minardil in _Clean-up on Level Seven._

My sincerest thanks to the ladies of the Garden of Ithilien for their encouragement, advice, and enthusiasm.

 _Altariel, 3-9 September 2018_


End file.
